Absolution
by LoyalPaddler
Summary: The two men regarded each other. One, pinch-mouthed, head tipped to give a slanting examination. The other more forthright, a well-used scowl set under silver hair. The others slept: vindicated, reunited, saved. And entirely unaware that they had an audience.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, team! So, think Post-Empty House, with the showdown with Moran having taken place immediately across the street from 221B. Also, be forewarned: this one takes an unapologetic plunge into the sentimental. I don't own these characters. Thanks!

* * *

Lestrade sees it.

In the moment when Moran is cuffed and about to be led away, Sherlock steps up next to John, and gives Moran a very meaningful look.

_You lose,_ the look says. _This is my place, and you will not keep me from him again. _

John doesn't see it. He's looking at the floor, thoughts obviously far away. The bruises on his knuckles match up nicely with ones forming on Moran's face, so Lestrade would be willing to guess that some part of Sherlock's plan went wrong, and John showed up in time to intervene. But the doctor is distant now. He's put himself in an out-of-the-way corner, and though his expression is blank, there's something about the way he's standing that makes Lestrade cringe.

_Scalded, _Lestrade thinks. _He looks like he's been burned and is only now becoming aware of it. _

Sherlock botched the reunion, then; John doesn't understand.

_And Moran's not the only one sporting bruises_, Lestrade notes with grim satisfaction, eyeing the angry purple on Sherlock's cheekbone.

His eyes shift back to John, to the sightless gaze, the absolute stillness. No, the doctor does not understand, but he would if he could see.

_Look up, John_, Lestrade mentally prods. _You're missing it._

Now that Moran is out of the room, Sherlock's demeanor has changed. The detective is entirely focused on John, edging closer to the doctor with trepidation and a look that speaks a thousand questions.

_No, _Lestrade corrects himself. _One question. THE question. _

_Look, John. You can see it. _

Sherlock's body language is _asking_. Treading so lightly, so obviously afraid of a refusal, starving for affirmation. Asking admittance. A pilgrim at the gate, seeking sanctuary. Sherlock petitioning to reenter the only place Lestrade has ever seen the detective truly find comfort and a semblance of peace—John Watson's life.

Footsore, bruised, exhausted, depleted, and asking. Asking.

Lestrade understands very clearly why Moriarty used John against Sherlock. The loss of Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson would have wounded Sherlock certainly, even deeply. But to lose John…

One of the remaining officers drops a clipboard with a clatter. The sound jars Watson from his thoughts, and he becomes aware of Sherlock standing close. John takes a reflexive step back, making room for Sherlock to take the lead, an old habit at crime scenes. Sherlock only hesitates for half a second before striding out of the room with John in his wake.

Lestrade sighs, running a thumb over the corner of his mouth.

_Please look up, John_, he thinks. _He's drowning. _

Over an hour later, the evidence is bagged, the paperwork is underway, and the last of the officers are wrapping up their loose ends. Lestrade steps back out into the street and raises his eyes to 221B's windows. There are lights on in the flat. At least one of the men is up there, and Lestrade still needs their statements.

He lets himself in through the front door and climbs to the flat with slow, plodding steps. He's tired, so bloody tired, and he's a bit afraid of what he'll find at the top of the stairs.

His imagination is painting him an awful picture of Sherlock alone, sitting in his armchair, curly head in his hands, John nowhere to be found. It's actually _sickening_, that thought. Or perhaps worse still, the idea of Sherlock gone cold. Unplugging his emotions in the face of John's rejection; a giant step backward toward the man he had been all those years before.

Sherlock has come so far, and to lose all that now… Well, it would mean a sort of victory for Moriarty after all, wouldn't it?

Lestrade would feel better if he could hear them, but it's silent in the rooms above. Swearing under his breath, he quickens his pace.

_What if John turned him down? _

Sherlock without John, Sherlock lonely, Sherlock gone hard, gone cold, gone distant, Sherlock the sociopath, Sherlock the junkie, Sherlock…

_Stop it. _

The door on the landing is standing open, so Lestrade braces himself and pushes into the living room.

And stops short.

Sherlock is not in his chair.

Because Sherlock is on the sofa, unceremoniously collapsed against John Watson. And they're both sound asleep.

A weighty emotion drops through Lestrade—relief—enough to force the air out between his lips and make him wish he could sit.

Sherlock is boneless, slumped against John's side. His head is tucked into the curve of John's shoulder, the dark curls squashed against the doctor's jaw. John's breath is steady. His body has shifted slightly to hold the detective's weight as his head rests against Sherlock's crown.

_Finally, _Lestrade thinks._ Oh, thank heaven. _

Neither of the sleepers stir under his scrutiny. They're both too far gone, having given in to the kind of exhaustion that comes from so many years spent bearing up so much weight.

_Well, then. _Lestrade smirks, a tad giddy. _The bloody statements will just have to wait. _

He picks up the cold, half-drunk mugs of tea on the coffee table and dumps them in the sink. Clicking off the kitchen light, he steps back into the living room, halting when he spots a newcomer in the doorway.

Mycroft Holmes eyes him, expression bland, and Lestrade feels an irrational urge to put himself between Mycroft and the two men on the sofa. The idea of Mycroft waking them, of lessening this… well, _that's _not going to happen.

Perhaps Mycroft sees this, because he turns his head back toward the sleepers but does not move or speak. Lestrade takes the chance to cross the living room and turn out the lamps. He pauses once more in front of the sofa, taking a last look. Sherlock shifts in his sleep, turning his head further into John's shoulder, and John sighs faintly into Sherlock's curls.

And it dawns on Lestrade with a sort of crystalline instinct: this is it.

This moment, this absolution, this peace, _here_, sinking into John's solid presence, shielded and upheld. This is what Sherlock has been waiting for.

This is Sherlock come home.

Lestrade blinks, swallowing what would have been a choked sort of chuckle. Then he reins in his emotion and turns to face the elder Holmes.

Crowding Sherlock's brother into the hallway, he snicks the door shut and follows Mycroft down the stairs. Lestrade's mouth pulls into a grim half-smile. It's time that he and Mr. Minor-Role-in-the-British-Government have a little chat about how things are going to be different the next time some psychopath decides to use him as leverage.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well, you can't say I didn't warn you. _Unabashedly_ sentimental. And wordy. I believe the word in the vernacular is "fluff," yes? Anyway, in case you're not already _drowning_ in sentiment, here's Mycroft's POV. Cheers, friends! Thanks for reading.

* * *

Mycroft slowly climbed the steps toward 221B, noting the quiet that had fallen. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open, eyes falling immediately to the scene on the sofa. Sherlock and John were both there, sound asleep. They'd obviously begun sitting a respectable distance apart, but in sleep, Sherlock's weight had sunk sideways, until he was resting propped up against John's side. John's head had tipped slightly in Sherlock's direction, and the back of one of his hands rested on Sherlock's forearm.

A light went off in the kitchen, and DI Lestrade rounded the corner, pulling up short and frowning when he realized Mycroft's presence. Mycroft noted the DI's slight shift in weight, as if he wanted to put himself between the elder Holmes and the men on the couch. The hard look in Lestrade's eyes was nothing short of a warning, a _don't you dare_.

He needn't have bothered.

Sherlock plainly needed this; he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. And Mycroft knew why. After three years of gritty effort, Sherlock had waited to relinquish his constant vigilance until he could abdicate his control to the one person he would trust to shield him in such a moment: John Watson. And now, seeing Sherlock finally let his guard down, well... his brother was not about to wake him.

No, Lestrade was not the only one pleased (even grateful, Mycroft was willing to admit) to see the two men together again. Robbing them of the peace brought on by this unconscious physical connection would be pointless and unkind. They'd certainly earned it.

Besides, sentiment aside, the sight of the two men tangled together—breathing in tandem Mycroft noted with a smirk—counted as a long-sought victory in Mycroft's mind. The culmination of an astounding amount of effort. A wrong made right.

Shooting Mycroft a final glance, Lestrade crossed the room and turned off the lamps. He paused to watch the sleepers for another moment, eyes assessing.

_Paternal affection_, Mycroft noted, before being treated with another hard look and crowded out of the apartment. The DI snicked the door shut and nodded Mycroft down the stairs.

It wasn't until they were on the stoop that Lestrade tipped his head up, blew a line of vapor out into the frosty air, and spoke.

"I suppose I should be sayin' thank you," he said, without looking Mycroft's way. "So, yeah, truly, thanks very much for saving my skin. And I suppose my lot at the yard deserved what we got where it comes to Sherlock, so there's no real argument there. But," and now he did look at Mycroft, "not John. He's done nothin' but stick by your brother, and it nearly broke my heart to see him so… displaced." Lestrade shifted, scowling. "So the next time some ruddy psychopath decides to use us as leverage, find some other way to keep us alive, 'cause I'm not sure Watson would come out of it a second time."

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the toe of his shoe. "Nor, perhaps, would my brother," he drawled, "but I don't think you've much cause for concern. He's spent the entirety of the last three years trying to find a way to ensure this conclusion. I'd be quite surprised if he allowed anything to rob him of his prize now that it's finally won."

Lestrade ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking tired.

"And now I should thank you," Mycroft stated. Lestrade frowned, but Mycroft raised a hand to belay the dismissal he knew was coming. "Thank you, Detective Inspector, for being the kind of man who would not only see my brother's promise, but would treat him in a manner that would warrant such a show of loyalty. Thank you," Mycroft said, meaning it, "for being his friend."

"Well," Lestrade cleared his throat, gruff in the face of emotion. When he looked at Mycroft from under his brows, he was plainly sincere. "I'm glad he's home. And safe. And alive." He looked away, shaking his head, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "Bloody miracle. But what do you expect from Sherlock Holmes?" This time the DI rubbed the hand across his face. "Blimey, I'm tired."

His gaze slid to Mycroft, momentarily suspicious.

Mycroft rolled his eyes a bit. "I shan't wake them. Go on." A black car rolled up to the curb, as if to prove his point. Lestrade nodded, headed for his own vehicle.

"I'll have them round to take their statements tomorrow," Lestrade called back over his shoulder. He paused, face curving into a devious sort of grin. "I might even bring a camera. The look on Donovan's face..." He trailed off with a chuckle and a final wave.

Mycroft ducked into his own seat, pulled the door shut, and finally released a very tired sigh of relief.

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver.

Mycroft's eyes drifted up to the flat's darkened windows, down the building's familiar façade, and fell to rest on the numbers on the door—221B.

"Home," he said, lips pulling into a rueful smile. "Home."


End file.
